Money Matters
by weedling
Summary: Sherlock and John investigate the murder of a wealthy woman in her apartment, tracking down all the suspects and ruling them out one by one. But is Sherlock really on the right track? Maybe this time it's John who has all the answers.


"Come this way Sherlock." Lestrade's gruff voice resonated through the hall of the small flat as he lead his two companions around a group of inspectors into a lavishly furnished bedroom.

"This one's another head-scratcher, I should say. I'd rather you take a look."

On the carpeted floor of the room lay the body of a blonde woman, limbs splayed aimlessly around her in a careless manner beside the bed. The taller of the two companions gazed stoically at the cadaver, hands hidden snugly within the pockets of his dark coat while the other, a smaller blonde man wearing a scarlet knitted sweater and jeans, turned his head to survey the room's surroundings. Lestrade waited rather anxiously by the door for the dark-haired man to assess the situation.

"Well? What've you got?"

"Patience Lestrade, I'm working."

No sooner had he spoken, the man knelt beside the dead woman and felt around the sides of her coat, upturned the palm of each hand, and scoured the area directly around her for any signs of clues as to what lead to her sudden demise. He lifted two fingers to her lips and brushed quickly, bringing them to his nose and sniffing before rubbing them together and standing back to full height.

"There's no signs of foul play and no wound anywhere on her body. No blood, not even a scratch." The head inspector leaned against the post of the door with crossed arms and watched the man do his work as he spoke. "A few of our specialists suspect she suffered a heart attack early this morning," he said with some confidence, "but we wanted to be sure there was nothing else suspicious about it."

"It's a good thing you called me in then." The detective straightened his posture and adjusted his coat collar.

The inspector looked taken aback at the other man's statement. "What do you mean by that?" he said, disbelief mixed with hesitant curiosity in his tone. The taller man refrained from replying, but stepped over the body on the floor and made his way to his partner in a few quick strides, removing the gloves from his hands as he did so. "Sherlock!" Lestrade piped again.

"The woman's been poisoned, clearly," Sherlock responded rather matter-of-factly, "so you're only half-right." No one else in the room said anything while he paced the room, avoiding collisions with any of the inspectors in the adjacent room that passed through. They simply waited for his explanation. As if entirely all too frustrated at the level of silence around him, Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to the woman's body while speaking. "There are no open wounds present, a sign showing no serious foul play. Her face is flushed, indicating a lack of oxygen flow through the body although she was not asphyxiated. Her extremities also show signs of discoloration, her eyes are swollen and puffy and there are tear stains on her cheeks from provoked tear duct stimulation. Many of these symptoms parallel those of a heart attack, so it was predictable that her death would be easily mistaken for one." He left the other two men standing dumbfounded at the door while he turned towards the connecting bathroom where a darker-skinned woman holding a plastic bag of materials was just about to exit. He brushed up against her shoulder accidentally as he entered, shifting and simply watching her reaction, blinking.

"Hey! Watch it-" She was cut short in her agitation as Lestrade followed in behind him with Watson, who had so far kept silent. "And what in blue blazes is _he _doing here?" she cried, clearly flustered at Sherlock's presence.

"Nice to see you too Sally. I'm here to lead you bunch of nitwits in the right direction, since you were kind enough to ask," the consulting detective retorted, not in a manner that was hostile per say, but with an evident air of indifference as he approached the countertop and felt around the granite, over the wooden cabinets and around the various hair and cleaning products under the sink. John stepped forward and fidgeted somewhat uncomfortably in front of her, apparently fazed by Sherlock's rude behavior.

"Sorry, he's just having a bit of a rough day…" The woman huffed, apparently not at all consoled by John's excuse for his partner's actions.

"I don't have time for this nonsense," she grumbled, pushing her way through them and disappearing through the door, leaving John and Lestrade in the presence of the world's only consulting detective.

"Right…" John sighed, quite unprepared for the short tempers of his colleagues so early in the morning. He peered over Lestrade's shoulder to get a better look at Sherlock, who was presently reading the back of shampoo bottles with little interest, throwing them over his shoulder apathetically within a few short seconds.

"Boring. Irrelevant. Still boring." The head inspector decided that his help was un-needed at the moment and sensing some unfriendly emotions running through the room, retreated to an area across the flat without another word. Sherlock emitted an aggravated sound as he chucked the last bottle across the floor, ruffling up his thick locks with his hands and leaning against the counter, head down in an irritated manner and shoulders hunched. John watched uneasily from behind.

"You're taking all this inactivity a little too seriously, you do understand that right?" he finally said, a serious look coming across his face. Sherlock's icy gaze fell upon John's reflection in the mirror, and he stood up to face him directly.

"It's just all so _boring _though John. I wouldn't expect you to understand." He said this with a wave of his hand, as if dismissing him in some way. Despite the gesture of ingratitude, John stood unmoving at the door, entirely not amused.

"You're acting like a kid Sherlock. There's a woman lying dead in the middle of the floor and you're treating this like it's some sort of game that you're tired of playing."

"But you see that's _it_!" That's _exactly _what it is!" The dark-haired detective sprang forward again, hands moving frantically in quick agitated motions in an expression of hopelessness. John emitted a disbelieving huff, turning as if to leave but refraining from doing so.

"You're unbelievable you know that? Just once I'd like to see you not dismiss a case so easily at first glance." Sherlock stopped and smirked.

"Truly? Who said I've dismissed this one? I haven't even described the poison that killed her yet. Ah, what's her name again?"

"Melinda Barnes. Forty-five years old."

"Yes, yes John I know. I only asked for her name." He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers across his coat sleeve as he paced back into the room with the dead woman. There were still inspectors walking about the flat, but Sherlock disregarded them almost completely. He stood there for a moment only thinking, or so it seemed to John as he too attempted to recognize the signs that Sherlock had mentioned previously of poisoning, not heart failure.

"Can you tell what poison was administered?" he asked, unsure of that information just from a mere glance.

"Not at this moment, although I suspect cyanide poisoning. It will have to be tested for in a lab in order to verify that." John was impressed.

"I see…"

"Well!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, clasping his hands together in a triangular fashion and gliding to the far side of the room and out the door. "Let's be off John. I believe I left a good sample of brain tissue thawing out on the kitchen table at home. Come along. It would be a shame to waste such a good specimen." And with that, John only caught a glimpse of his trench coat billowing around the corner before glancing back at the unfortunate victim beside him and rushing off to follow his partner.


End file.
